


Restitution

by daasgrrl



Series: Kindred Spirits [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Revelations, Slash, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the Fall, Sherlock pays John a "brief but eventful visit", and what follows thereafter. A companion piece of sorts to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/485638">Eventide</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restitution

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is an offshoot from the unintentional [Kindred Spirits](http://archiveofourown.org/series/25697) series (Mycroft/Sherlock), in which the post-Reichenbach events between Sherlock and John are only summarised briefly in conversation, but then demanded a fic of their own. This is essentially stand-alone Sherlock/John, with no direct referencing of previous fics, although if you've read them you might understand Sherlock's behaviour a little better than John does.
> 
> Thanks to **evila_elf** for beta.

It was late on a Tuesday afternoon when Peter Sinclair walked into John’s life. Or to put it more accurately, barged. John had just finished up with Mrs Walker – 66, diabetic, arthritic, hated the cold and the damp and London so expensive these days, but what can you do? – and was laboriously updating his notes on the computer when the pudgy, tweed-suited man bustled in through his office door, briefcase in hand.

John glanced at him in acknowledgement, but kept typing. Normally his patients would wait obligingly to be called, hence the nice comfortable chairs provided outside for exactly this purpose, but there was always the occasional one who felt the need to grace John with his presence as soon as humanly possible. Usually of exactly this type, too – white, male, over-50. He would have to speak to Gemma again about keeping a better eye on the waiting room, although to be fair, she’d probably been caught up in having the obligatory chat with the departing Mrs Walker.

“Doctor Watson,” the man said, having already settled himself into the seat opposite, and John frowned at his screen. One of the ruder ones, then.

“Be with you in just a minute.” There hadn’t been much to update, and John was, in fact, now finished, but it was the principle of the thing. He added a completely unnecessary notation to Mrs Walker’s file, then clicked back out to his appointment screen, which informed him: _4.45pm Karin Soames_. Interesting. He didn’t like to judge by appearances, but the last time he’d seen her she’d been a strikingly gorgeous brunette.

“I’m not a patient,” the man added helpfully. His voice held the distinct traces of a Scottish burr, which might have been pleasant to the ear under other circumstances.

“So I gather,” John said, turning to give him a better look over. Despite the initial impression of pot-bellied middle-age, the man’s face was relatively thin. A shock of silvery-grey hair was offset by a neatly groomed beard, and rather incongruously tanned skin. Bright eyes peered out from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses. “However, I do actually have one of those booked right now, so if you’d like to speak to Gemma at the front desk, Mr…”

“Sinclair’s the name. Peter Sinclair. I’m here from Boehringer-Ingelheim.” John caught a glimpse of sleek black leather gloves as the man propped his briefcase up on his knees. “And I’d like to talk to you today about our new improved version of Pradaxa, which as you know has already become the leading blood thinner in the UK…”

“Look, Mr Sinclair, as I just said, I’ve a patient waiting, and no patience for you people on a good day. Which this isn’t, since I’m half an hour behind as it is. Next time, try making an appointment and I’ll be sure to ignore it promptly.” John got up from behind the desk and moved around towards him, intending to usher him out at top speed.

“But you need to hear what I have to say,” Sinclair continued pleasantly, drawing out a beige folder. “What’s a few minutes of your time when lives are at stake?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” John continued, staring him down. “Or I’ll call security.”

“What security? You mean the young lady behind the counter? By all means.”

“You realise you’re not doing yourself any favours like this, right? I’m hardly going to want to prescribe anything you recommend _now_ , am I? If this is your usual routine, I’m surprised you still have a job at all.”

Sinclair remained disconcertingly unfazed, although he did return the folder to his briefcase before setting it back on the floor. “Oh, very good,” he said. “You’re quite right, of course – I’m not a drug rep at all. I actually wanted to speak with you about your blog.”

“My…” John paused to catch his breath, momentarily taken aback by the audacity of the man. “You mean about Sherlock Holmes.”

There was nothing else that Sinclair _could_ mean, but It was the last thing John was expecting to hear. His former blog was still online – in memoriam, as it were – but he hadn’t touched it since… well, since recording his final words about Sherlock’s death over two years ago. He’d stubbornly maintained his silence during the subsequent months of speculation, had waited it out until public attention had finally drifted away, distracted by fresh new scandals and international sporting events.

Even now, memories of Sherlock still haunted him – of course they did – but John had learned to live with them, had managed to put himself together all over again. He’d gone into practice for himself, established a nice, stable working partnership with Doctor Syal. A little further along and he’d even begun dating again, with an odd mixture of trepidation and hope. Then he’d found Mary, or vice-versa, and things had taken their natural course, although he still shied away from talking about his time with Sherlock, even to her. One of the things he appreciated most about her was the way she respected his reserve, never pushing him to know more. At work a new patient might occasionally venture a curious or sympathetic question, but they generally didn’t care too much about John’s past as long as he could deal with their ailments in the present. All in all, John thought he was doing well, considering. However, Sinclair had caught him completely off his guard.

“Yes, exactly.” Sinclair looked at him intently from beneath bushy grey brows. “Your late… friend.”

John briefly wondered if he’d have to resort to calling the police to get rid of him, and what an embarrassment that would be. “That part of my life is over. And you are exactly the last person I’d want to discuss it with.”

“That’s where you are entirely mistaken,” Sinclair insisted, but a little something of the self-assurance went out of his tone, and he continued more softly. “Please, Doctor Watson. I’ve travelled quite a way to see you. I have some… new information you very much need to hear.”

“Right,” John said. Of that he was highly dubious, although both Sinclair’s tan and his accent suggested there might be at least some small truth to his story. “After two whole years, _now_ there’s something I urgently need to know. Assuming I still care.”

“Do you not?”

John sighed. That was the hell of it, of course. Not bothering to answer, he reached across the desk and grabbed the phone, punching the button for reception. “Sorry Gemma, something’s come up. I’ll be another five minutes or so. Right. No, that’s fine. All right.” Then he turned back to Sinclair, leaning against the side of the desk, his arms folded. “So, who exactly are you, then, and what do you want?”

Sinclair ignored the question. “You are recently engaged, I understand, Doctor Watson.”

“You seem to know far too much about me.” John thought he should be mildly concerned about that, worried even, but at that moment all he felt was the sharp thrill of his nerves as he faced off against Sinclair, this sudden intrusion into his peaceful, normal life.

“And you have friends as well, don’t you, Doctor Watson? Family. People you care about. I know you do.”

“Are you… _threatening_ me?”

“Not at all,” Sinclair said hurriedly. “Merely trying to establish a… baseline. For what I have to say.”

John glared at him, but held his tongue.

“Imagine then that a situation arose where you had, inadvertently, put their lives in danger. And the only way that you could protect them was to… do away with yourself. Abandon them. Without warning; without ever letting them know why.”

Perhaps it was simply the air of intrigue Sinclair had brought in with him, or perhaps it was something more specific – a familiar tilt of Sinclair’s head, maybe, or a momentary lapse in the lilt of his speech – but at his words something in John began to stir softly and wake from long slumber.

“This is ridiculous,” John said, but Sinclair’s manner was so still and serious that he nevertheless felt a tiny tendril of fear unfurl in his chest at the thought of being placed in such a position. However, common sense stubbornly maintained that things like that did not, could not happen to him. Not any more, anyway. “I haven’t been mixed up in any business remotely like that since… well, you’ve obviously done your research, you should know.”

 “That’s right. So I’m clearly not talking about _you_. Please do try and keep up.”

In hindsight, John thought it was then that he really should have suspected, should have _known_. However, in John’s current reality it was simply one more ordinary afternoon in his ordinary life, and the elderly, bespectacled Scotsman sitting in front of him was not that dissimilar from dozens of other crazies who had approached John at some time or another over the years offering support, speculation, theories. Not to mention that deep in his heart John had always known Sherlock was dead. Despite his graveside bravado, he had never really believed otherwise. He’d been there, after all; had seen and felt it all more clearly than he’d ever wanted to – the dark blood spilling over the pavement, the absence of life beneath his trembling fingers.

So it may have been that his subconscious had worked it out already, but at that moment John merely stood and stared at Sinclair, confused and uneasy.

“Which must mean… you’re talking about Sherlock. You’re saying that he had to die because of us. Me. Because it was Moriarty’s price.” John’s voice was tight. “Yes, I’d already worked that much out, thank you so much. It’s not been a great comfort, you’ll understand.”

“You understood that much, then. The only thing that would appease Moriarty was to have… Sherlock discredited, disgraced, for the world to see him as a fraud. Then his friends would be left alone, but their lives would be scarred forever by association. That was Moriarty’s plan, and it worked. Even though you… you never stopped believing in him.”

John had to force himself to concentrate, to stay firmly in the present. “Which we both know, so that’s not why you came to see me.”

Sinclair hesitated, now looking as uncertain as John himself. “But what if… what if Sherlock had no intention of dying? What if he managed to find a way to fake his death, and disappear instead? Then his friends would still be safe, as long as everyone believed he was truly gone. Everyone. Even his best and closest friend. _Especially_ him. That was absolutely crucial for it to work. No matter how… how difficult or painful it might have been.”

He had never truly hoped; had never dared to hope. Yet there must have been some treacherous fragment there all the same, for his heart was thudding madly in his chest and he found it difficult to breathe. When he spoke, however, it was with an icy calm. If there were really any chance Sherlock were still alive, Sinclair wouldn’t be leaving until he’d told John everything he knew. “What exactly are you saying?”

“John,” Sinclair said, getting to his feet, and now the burr was gone, and his voice had become deeper, and unmistakeably English. A moment later the glasses came off as well, and with that gesture the man’s posture and body language seemed also to shift, transforming into something completely different, yet entirely familiar. Despite the superficial continuities of hair and skin tone, the elderly Sinclair had vanished, and with a single touch of his hand on John’s arm everything became suddenly, startlingly clear.

“John, please, you have to understand. It had to be done. I couldn’t come back until Moriarty’s network was completely dismantled. Until it was safe. For you. For all of us. I’m… I do realise what it must have been like, for you. What you must have been through. And I’m so very, very sorry.”

“Sherlock…”John managed, or thought he did, but he could no longer hear the sound of his own voice. Even as he tried to steady himself against the desk, his knees buckled and the dizziness in his head overwhelmed him. He felt Sherlock’s hands on him, heard Sherlock calling his name, and then the room gently faded into blackness around him.

***

Someone called his name again, insistently, but it was a woman’s voice, and when John opened his eyes he found he was looking into Revati’s concerned face. For a confused moment he thought how handy it was that there had been another doctor right next door. Gemma was there, too, peering over Revati’s shoulder, but there was no one else apparent in the room, and John frowned.

“John? What happened?” Revati’s hand was at his wrist, and she was staring into his eyes, clearly evaluating his pupils.

“Where’d he go?” John demanded, shaking her off gently and pushing himself up so that he was at least sitting up on the carpet instead of lying on it. “Did you see him? Gemma? Please say you did.”

“There was a man here. Tall, grey-haired. He was out the door like lightning the second I came in,” Gemma said. “Then Dr Syal heard me and ran in as well.”

“I’d just finished up with Mrs Soames,” Revati said. “Since you’d told Gemma to hold her off for a bit, and I was free. So, who was he, and where did he come from? What happened? Did he attack you? I expect he’s long gone by now, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing happened,” John said, “Just had a bit of news… unexpected, that’s all. I’m fine.” He began scrambling to his feet before realising he was still dizzy, and stopped long enough to draw in a deep breath, and then another. “I’ve just… I’ve really got to go find him, right now.”

“Won’t he be needing these, then?” Gemma asked, puzzlement in her tone. She’d picked up Sinclair’s – Sherlock’s – glasses from the surface of John’s desk, and was dangling them from her fingers. “He’ll be blind without them.”

“It’s a long story,” John said. “A _very_ long story. Sorry. Just… I’ll tidy up all the admin tomorrow, yeah? Sorry.”

“John, if you just passed out like that, I’m not sure you should be…”

He grabbed his jacket and was out the door without waiting to hear Revati’s concerns.

***

As he hurried through the now-empty waiting room and down the front passageway, John was already considering where best to go, where Sherlock might have gone. The rooms at Baker Street were the most obvious conclusion. John had moved out quite a while back, but they had remained empty since, the rent continuing to be paid by Mycroft in what John had interpreted as some bizarre, morbid display of sentiment. In retrospect, he realised that he really should have known better.

John had had little contact with Mycroft himself since the funeral for a variety of excellent reasons, not the least of which was that John had continued to hold him at least partly responsible for Sherlock’s death. There had been one excruciatingly awkward exchange in which Mycroft had essentially told him to take anything of Sherlock’s that he wanted to keep, while John had thanked him and narrowly refrained from telling him to go to hell, and that had been about the limit of it. Mycroft, too, had clearly been uncomfortable in John’s presence, and little wonder. He had known full well that Sherlock was alive. Known all along, and not told him, and John’s ongoing resentment flared a little higher at the thought, even if he knew he was being unreasonable. It had obviously been Sherlock’s plan, Sherlock’s decision, all along. Mycroft was simply a less complicated target for his anger.

John jogged easily down the shallow flight of stairs, and turned right onto the street, joining the determined flow of people making their way home at the end of another working day. From here he estimated Baker Street to be around fifteen minutes on foot, near enough to walk. However, he had only gone a few paces when there was a sudden presence at his shoulder, a tall figure that fell into step with him as naturally as though it had never been away.

“Are you all right?” it said. John stole a cautious glance over. The grey hair and beard were gone now, as was the slight paunch, and despite the now ill-fitting brown suit and the flat cap pulled down over short, dark hair it was clearly, unmistakeably Sherlock. Very much alive.

“No thanks to you,” John muttered. There was a quite a lot more he could have said, not all of it flattering, but now was hardly the appropriate time or place. He wondered if Sherlock might have planned it that way. “You ran off quickly.”

“There would have been too many questions. And I knew you would come after me.”

“Pretty bloody sure of yourself for a dead man.” Part of him was furious, already bubbling over with questions and accusations, but it was mixed with a sudden, unstoppable rush of exhilaration. The reality of Sherlock’s resurrection had only just begun to sink in. He reached out then and wrapped a hand tightly around Sherlock’s forearm, not caring how it might look. He just needed to know that Sherlock was really there, whole and alive, to feel the reassuringly solid warmth of him. There was a momentary hesitation in Sherlock’s stride , but he didn’t pull away, and after a few moments John let go of him again. However, he remained close by for the rest of the way, his arm brushing repeatedly against the edge of Sherlock’s sleeve as they walked. Sherlock must have noticed, but allowed it to pass without comment.

John found the rooms at Baker Street as abnormally tidy as the last time he’d seen them, the day he’d returned to move a few sticks of furniture and a handful of boxes off to his new flat. Despite standing empty for so long, it looked and smelled freshly cleaned, which was quickly explained as Mrs Hudson emerged from the depths of the hallway, an apron tied neatly around her waist. It was clear that Sherlock had already been back here; her gaze flickered easily between Sherlock and John, looking delighted but not particularly surprised to see them there.

“Oh, you found him,” she said to Sherlock, before enfolding John in a quick hug. “It’s been a quite a while since I saw you last, hasn’t it, dear? You’ve been so busy of late.”

“Yes, it has,” John said, slightly stunned by her apparent composure. “And how have you been, Mrs Hudson?”

She laughed. “Had my hands full today, as you can see. Just as well you’ve come back already, Sherlock. I was beginning to think I’d dreamed you up.” She moved to embrace Sherlock much more fiercely than she’d done John, and only then was it obvious that she, too, had clearly thought Sherlock dead, and was adjusting to his return in her own steadfast way. Sherlock stood there and patted her awkwardly as she clung to him. Finally she let him go, wiping her eyes quickly with the corner of the apron.

“Sorry,” she said directly to John. “You wouldn’t believe the nerve of him. Turns up on my doorstep just before lunch, casual as you please. You’d think he could have had someone warn me, at my time of life. Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Believe me, I understand,” John said, with heartfelt sympathy.

“Mrs Hudson, you would survive the apocalypse.” Sherlock’s tone was light, amused, although it occurred to John that he couldn’t really have been sure she would still be alive if and when he returned. That any of them would have been, for that matter. Sherlock might well have faked his death in order to ‘protect’ them, but in doing so had in effect abandoned them as well. John had managed his grief as he’d always had, taking it day by day, but it had been hard on all of them, and possibly on Mrs Hudson most of all. He tamped down a quick and somehow familiar flare of irritation at Sherlock. Time enough for that later.

“Now, I’ve put on fresh sheets for you and brought in some soap and things. Just this once, mind you,” Mrs Hudson said. She glanced around the living room with a distracted air. “I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get all your things back up as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I really am grateful you let Mycroft keep the rooms while I was… away.”

“Far too clever for your own good, Sherlock, that’s always been your trouble,” she chided. “Still, it’s wonderful to see you – almost like old times again, isn’t it? Although I suppose John won’t be coming back to stay now that he has Mary to think of, will you John?”

“No, I suppose not.” The thought made John glance at his watch, but it was only half-past five, and she wouldn’t be missing him just yet.

“Still, it’s so good to see you. Anyway, I’ll be off, let you two catch up properly.” She smiled at John, patted Sherlock once more on the arm, and then went out through the kitchen doorway. Silence filled the space left by her departure.

“So…” John said, now feeling at something of a loss. “Not dead, then.”

“So it would appear.”

“Right.” At that point he could probably have done with a good, stiff drink, but instead settled for a rummage around the kitchen. However, Mrs Hudson’s efforts had apparently not yet extended to restocking the pantry, and there was little enough of anything to be found. Still, the kettle looked in good order, and while the teabags in the cupboard were decidedly ancient and forlorn, they were probably serviceable if one were desperate enough. John determinedly slung them into mugs anyway, while Sherlock seated himself on the long sofa and watched him in silence.

“There’s no milk. Or sugar,” John commented, when he finally set the mugs down on the table. He had the faint sense that he was on the verge of babbling hysteria, but surely no one could blame him. It wasn’t every day your former flatmate came back from the dead.

“You must have questions,” Sherlock said, not touching his tea.

“If you don’t at least drink some of that, I’m going to think you’re a hallucination.”

Sherlock frowned, but obediently took a cautious sip and set it back down again. “I hardly think that would constitute sufficient proof,” he commented. “You could equally be hallucinating the tea.”

John smiled thinly at him, unamused. “Well, it’s definitely you, at any rate.”

He briefly considered each of the armchairs in turn, then gave up the inner struggle and sat down beside Sherlock on the sofa. Something in him demanded to be close enough to feel Sherlock’s physical presence, smell the traces of Sinclair’s overly assertive cologne, in order to be entirely convinced of his existence. John’s memories of Sherlock were now inextricably overlaid with blood and panic, and the chilling moment he _knew_ , even numb with shock, that things would never be the same again. Even now, he didn’t think he would ever be able to forget.

“How?” he said finally. “How did you manage it?”

Sherlock talked then, softly, slowly, stopping only to take an occasional sip of tea. As he listened, John’s anger slowly began to flicker back into life again. It was the kind of plan only Sherlock could possibly have come up with – dramatic, ludicrous, and impractical, with a hundred things that could have gone wrong at every turn.

“Do you even realise how _stupid_ an idea that was?” John said at last. “You could have been killed.” He grimaced as Sherlock gave him a wry look, and the irony of his own words sank in. “By which I mean _actually_ killed, not… not convincingly almost-killed, you arrogant prat.”

“It did work, though.”

“And left at least a dozen people who knew you were still alive. Okay, I can understand no one would believe the homeless network anyway, and Mycroft’s just another one of you, but Molly! I noticed she never wanted to talk to me after it happened. I thought… I thought it was probably just her own way of dealing with it… you know, the way she felt about you. Having to handle your body, cleaning you up afterwards. But it was nothing like that at all, was it? She just felt _guilty_. Because she knew and I didn’t.”

“John… I’ve explained why. I needed her to know. I needed you _not_ to know. I could apologise again, if that’s what you need to hear.”

“Two years, Sherlock. That’s a lot of apologising.”

“You don’t understand. I couldn’t have come back any earlier.” Sherlock was sounding frustrated now, but John was in no mood to sympathise. “Not until…”

“Yes, I know, Sherlock. Moriarty’s network still active, our lives in danger, needed to be done, all excellent reasons, I’m sure. I might not be a genius, but I _understand_ , all right? It just doesn’t make it any _better_ , is what I’m saying.”

For once, Sherlock accepted the reprimand in silence, turning his face away.

John’s mug was empty now, and he set it back on the table. “You have no idea what it was like for me, Sherlock. After you pulled off your little stunt, you got up, and you walked away, and went abroad, and did everything you had to do. Whereas, here…” John swallowed, the memories still choking him, “…everything just stopped. On the one hand the papers went crazy, cameras everywhere, people shoving microphones in my face, but at the same time there was… nothing. Where you used to be. It was like starting all over again.”

He licked his lips nervously and glanced over at Sherlock, who just sat there beside him staring into space as though he hadn’t been paying the slightest bit of attention, although John knew from his very stillness that he hadn’t missed a word. John shook his head to clear it, and then sighed. There was no point in going on about it. Hadn’t he wished for exactly this? Begged an indifferent universe in his dreams for Sherlock not to be dead? He should be overjoyed, overcome with gratitude. Which some part of him was, but he appeared to have temporarily mislaid it under a layer of self-pity. Maybe it was time to refocus.

“I’m sorry…” Sherlock said again, but John cut him off with a wave.

“So why did you bother with all that ‘Sinclair’ stuff, anyway? I gather that with Mrs Hudson, you just showed up looking… like you.” Not that Sherlock looked exactly like his old self even now, what with the short hair, and the ugly suit, and the unnatural tan that had most likely come out of a bottle.

“I was worried,” Sherlock said quietly, “ about how you might react.”

“I would have thought you’d have had that all figured out.”

“Too many variables. I wanted… I needed to have a chance to explain, first. You do have an fairly memorable right hook.”

Perversely, the reminder of the occasion he’d once exercised it on Sherlock made John smile, brought back the improbable madness of their time together. He met Sherlock’s gaze for a moment and found him smiling tentatively in return. It was that combined with the hope in his eyes, the uncertainty, that finally doused the remains of John’s anger.

“Yeah, it was probably a good idea,” John said. “I did hate you for a while, there, for everything. Luring me away with that phone call, then making me watch you go through… that. ” He tried to push back the memories, but try as he might, they refused to go. “I used to think, maybe if I’d done something different a bit earlier on, said something different, something _clever_ , maybe you… wouldn’t have done what you did. Had nightmares about it for weeks.”

Again, he reached out his hand, this time closing his fingers gently around Sherlock’s wrist in an unconscious echo of the last time he’d touched him. This time he was comforted by the textured warmth of his skin, the clear and distinct pulse of life thrumming through his veins. Sherlock tensed slightly beneath his grasp, then relaxed again, accepting his unspoken need.

“But the worst thing,” John continued, “the thing I regretted most when it was all over, was how much of a coward I’d been. Pretending… to myself most of all, really. That I didn’t care if you weren’t interested, that it was okay. When I should have… tried… said something.”

“John. You’re hardly a coward. You…”

“Shhh, Sherlock, you’re just going to listen now. Actually, to hell with it. I don’t think I have anything left to say.”

He leaned in closer, guided by nothing but instinct, wanting just to rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, breathe him in. He felt Sherlock edge downwards to let him settle in more comfortably, a gesture John found strangely soothing in his overwrought state, and it turned out he did have something left to say, after all.

“I missed you so much.”

Then his world narrowed down to a point as he turned his head just far enough to press a single soft kiss against the edge of Sherlock’s jaw, followed by another. There was the slight scratch of incipient stubble against his lips, the strong but not unpleasant smell of cologne in his nostrils. It intensified the feeling that he was kissing a virtual stranger, but under the circumstances, that didn’t seem so very far from the truth. He couldn’t imagine the old Sherlock being so quiet and still, letting him do this without question.

Again, Sherlock shifted beside him, and then unexpectedly his mouth was against John’s, tentative, slightly open, willing. However, John’s kisses continued small and soft, so light that they were barely exchanging breath between them. He felt as though he needed to hold the moment exactly as it was – he didn’t want to think, or speak, or for this gentle contact to become something else. He wanted only the comforting weight of Sherlock against him, the heat of his skin, the steady rush of his breathing, all the things which told his senses insistently and unequivocally: _alivealivealive_. Only when it had all sunk in did he find himself on the verge of tears, and he had to blink furiously to hold them back. He pulled sharply away from Sherlock then, before they could overwhelm him.

Before he had entirely recovered, Sherlock surprised him once more, his mouth suddenly demanding John’s in earnest. There was speech mixed in as well, but it was only fragments of words floating on a whisper of breath – apologies, regret, _John_. For his part, John wasn’t at all sure now what they were doing, where this was going, but with Sherlock that was nothing new. Eventually the flow of words stopped, and then it became apparent that while Sherlock might once have declared relationships not his area, he was certainly no innocent, either. His tongue pressed unhesitatingly into John’s mouth, his hands confidently cupping John’s face before moving lower, slipping under the edge of John’s jacket to rest lightly on his hips.

“God, who are you and where did you come from?” John wasn’t sure if it was some change that had transpired during Sherlock’s time away, or just a side of him he’d kept hidden all along.

“I… never thought you might… truly want,” Sherlock said, sounding as breathless as John felt.

“Some detective you are.” He’d meant it light-heartedly, but his voice was rough with longing as he pulled Sherlock towards him again. His earlier reserve was gone; now he desperately wanted to have of Sherlock everything he could, while he could. Perhaps it was out of some underlying fear that he might disappear again without warning. Or maybe some part of him still demanded proof, needed to touch and taste and possess as some final confirmation of Sherlock’s existence.

“What do you need, John? Tell me.” The insinuation in Sherlock’s voice made him shiver.

“Oh, god, anything. You,” John said. “I just need to know… that you’re here. That you’re real.”

In the back of his mind a voice told him calmly what a very bad idea this was, but he ignored it. He had no time to spare for consequences when Sherlock’s hands were already stripping his jacket from him, and his own were consumed with undoing enough cloth to to able to run his fingers over Sherlock’s bare skin, stretched too tightly over bone and sinew though it was.

Sherlock’s hands continued to range recklessly over him, without mercy, leaving John trembling in their wake. However, while Sherlock clearly desired him enough to become aroused in turn, it was here that John found himself rebuffed. After a slow, lingering brush of his fingers over heated cloth, Sherlock’s hand pushed him gently but firmly away, before returning to fondle John’s own erection with renewed dedication. While the gesture was unexpected and perhaps a little disappointing, John understood well enough, or thought he did. If Sherlock disliked or disdained such intimate contact, it would explain a lot about his general reticence about sex, but at least his desire in all other ways was reassuringly plain.

Bolstered by the thought, John went back to caressing the silk of Sherlock’s skin, kissing his incredible mouth, until he was finally pushed back into a undignified half-sprawl on the sofa. John’s eyes fluttered closed as Sherlock finally unbuttoned and unzipped, his fingers swift and sure as he palmed the head of John’s cock. He paused there, smearing precome messily over the tip before taking the length of it more firmly in his grasp. John’s brain quickly descended into a buzzing haze of confusion and white noise as Sherlock stroked him. There were too many impossibilities in the situation for him to process, so he simply gave in, let Sherlock touch him in whatever way he chose.

In this, too, Sherlock clearly had more experience than John might have expected, and he had lost none of his ruthless capacity for observation. Every action that drew a gasp of pleasure from John was repeated, varied, amplified, until all was pure sensation, and John was clutching at Sherlock’s thigh, arching up into his touch, desperate for release. Almost there, and then Sherlock’s hand seemed to slow its pace, dragging John unwillingly back from the edge. His eyes opened.

“I assure you, John,” Sherlock said, gazing at him steadily, even though he could hardly expect John to _listen_ when a moment ago he had been so very close, “that I am indeed quite real.”

“Yes,” John gasped, needing him to _bloody well_ _just get on with it_.

“And I need you by my side. Even as a friend. It’s imperative.”

“Yes, Sherlock… whatever you want, just… _please_.”

At that moment he would have said anything, done anything, and Sherlock no doubt knew that, but it was no less true. Apparently satisfied, Sherlock bent to kiss and caress him again, and John groaned in pleasure and relief as his orgasm flooded through him and he felt as though he were dying only to live again.

When he had recovered enough to speak, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock peering down at him, his gaze bright and inquisitive as ever. Maybe it was too soon to start being annoyed at him already, but even that felt wonderfully, comfortably familiar.

“Okay,” John said. “What the hell was that?”

“I should have thought it was quite obvious.”

“Not that part. The part where you tried to blackmail me into forgiving you.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “No unlawful threat or demand on physical property was involved. Perhaps the word you’re looking for _coercion_ ,” he added helpfully.

“Sherlock, seriously, don’t start. I didn’t say I was completely _over_ the urge to punch you.”

Still, he pulled Sherlock close and kissed him, before Sherlock abruptly disentangled himself and walked off. However, a moment later John heard water running, and Sherlock quickly reappeared with a damp flannel, handing it to John to clean himself off. As he took it, John couldn’t resist a glance at the front of Sherlock’s trousers, but there was no sign of his earlier arousal. It appeared as though he had simply… recovered.

“You didn’t…” John began, awkwardly indicating.

Considering all they’d already done, the question appeared to make Sherlock surprisingly uncomfortable. He screwed up his face slightly and looked away.

“No,” he said.

“You know I would have been happy to…”

“Yes. It’s fine. I would prefer not to discuss it.”

“It’s all right if you’re not… interested in that kind of thing. With another person, I mean. Or not at all. It’s… well, it’s not the usual, but there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I know there isn’t. It’s complicated.”

“It’s really not as complicated as you seem to think, Sherlock.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sherlock snapped. “What about you, John? And… Mary?”

“Oh, god.” John immediately looked at his watch, and was bemused to find it was only just gone seven. After two long years, it had apparently only taken two hours to turn his life completely upside-down. “I’d better give her a call now.”

It didn’t seem as though Mary had been concerned enough to call _him_ , but then her habits were a little unreliable, to say the least. However, a quick rummage through his jacket pockets revealed that it wouldn’t have mattered if she had; when he’d run out of the clinic he had left his phone in his desk, where he usually kept it during the day.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, I know.” John stopped, and sighed. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t know. I just…it’s too much to think about all at once, all right? Let me just call her, tell her what’s happened. I mean, okay, maybe not… _everything_ that happened, not yet, but at least about you. Then… I don’t know. We could go… have dinner. Talk some more.”

“I think you should go home.”

“Um, okay… why? Are you trying to get rid of me already?”

“I’ll still be here tomorrow, John. And the day after that. You have another life now.”

Sherlock looked at him steadily, and John felt the guilt kick in, welling up inside him. He didn’t want to hurt Mary – that was the last thing he wanted – but he couldn’t quite find it in himself to regret what he had just done, either. What _they_ had done. If nothing else, he knew by now how quickly things could change, could turn around and disappear. Yet Sherlock was right, as he usually was.

“I should still let her know where I’ve been. Have you got the landline back yet? I must have left my phone at the clinic.”

“Here… use mine.”

John hesitated, then slowly reached out and took it from him, weighing it in his hand. It was new, of course; by now Sherlock’s old phone was either with Mycroft or in an evidence bag somewhere deep in the bowels of Scotland Yard. The thought brought up more memories than he really wanted to deal with, and John quickly headed off into the kitchen to make the call, needing the physical distance from Sherlock in order to concentrate.

Mary’s initial concern – it seemed she had indeed called him, to no avail – was quickly assuaged with a half-truth about running into an old mate and forgetting his phone, and John ended the call feeling more of a heel than ever. He couldn’t help being reminded of the procession of girlfriends who’d accused him of caring more about Sherlock’s work – or occasionally, in the case of the more perceptive ones, about Sherlock himself – than he had them.

Mary was… well, she’d always been different, hadn’t she? She’d been the one who’d chatted him up, for a start – right in front of his outraged date. Impulse, she’d explained later, which John quickly realised was more of a philosophy with her than random happenstance. She’d swept him up into her disaster zone of a life, filled with the detritus of past and current ‘impulses’, and he’d somehow never wanted to leave. She drove him crazy and made him laugh, and she’d been there when he’d needed her. He’d always be grateful for that. Her voice was a reminder of what he still had left to lose.

He handed the phone back to Sherlock when he was done, and they stared at each other in silence. John moistened his lips nervously with his tongue. The sound of Mary’s voice had pulled him insistently back into his everyday life, and now standing here, in Baker Street, with Sherlock in front of him, the feeling of unreality, of disconnectedness, swept over him again.

“Right,” he said, finally. “I suppose I’ll be off, then. Let you settle in a bit. Maybe… tomorrow?” Yet this was hard, too, having found Sherlock only to have to let him go all over again. John had no idea what he was going to do, but he hoped he could make it work somehow. He had to.

“Yes. That would be… good,” Sherlock said, and after another pause John took the couple of steps towards him and kissed him again, just to remind himself that he could. Sherlock seemed comfortable enough with the kiss, but returned his subsequent embrace with the same awkwardness he’d shown with Mrs Hudson.

Then it really was time to leave. John turned away and hurried down the stairs, towards home, towards Mary, squaring his shoulders firmly against the journey yet to come.


End file.
